Ink
by corporalrivaille
Summary: Modern AU / rated M for future chapters / Dekka Talent considered herself impassive, outside the comics she created. High school was overenthusiastic about extracurricular activities, her parents never saw eye to eye with her and her only friends had their own lives to live. But what if your life was about fabricating other lives? What if your love could be more than just fiction?


yes i know i should be working on ayn (I AM I'M DOING SO RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT IN TIME I JUST i've been inspired i finished the gone series 11/10 everyone should read it will ruin your life AND THEY HAVE CANON GAY CHARACTERS what was my point oh yeah i'm writing ayn don't worry i have mocks in january but i'm putting aside revision for ereri y'all should love me) BUT BREKKA

hello internet this is my first modern au multi chapter gone fic AND I'M EXCITED BECAUSE CUTE LESBIANS and probable smut

first chapters tend to suck then i remember all my chapters suck but read it anyway BECAUSE LESBIANS

dedicated to tori because she's my dekka fancast

also bethan because she forced me to read gone with a knife at my through and i feel weird not giving her some sort of mention

but mostly tori

YAY TORI

okay yeah i'm done i'm gonna go ereri now

ENJOY

* * *

Chapter One

No one tried harder to replicate American movies than American high schools. Comically, they wanted to be just like those rom-com movies that people blogged about with inaccurate captions, with straight couples and jealous cheerleaders and bullies that wore varsity jackets to represent their passion for football, baseball, basketball, any kind of ball-like activity.

Even I had to bite a smile back at the innuendo in that thought, just as Zil and his 'crew' came hollering past. They ignored me, thankfully, too absorbed with the cheerleaders that they didn't have on their arms. One thing that the movies got wrong was the fame jocks got.

Yeah, that only happened when school teams actually _won_ games.

Our high school tried extremely hard to replicate the success school teams gained in those awful chick flicks. We rivalled against the nearest high schools, which were all a city away, except for Coats Academy but that was more mental institute than school and no one pretended otherwise. Freshman year was spent trying multiple extracurricular activities to find your strength. Sport clubs were the kings, languages clubs were welcome, book clubs were quiet (unsurprisingly) and a chess club didn't exist but the typical high school 'nerds' had computer clubs and they proved in handy. I didn't know much about all the clubs but I held a certain respect and fear for the computer club. They were particularly good at hacking into teachers' Facebook accounts.

I was part of the comic club. It had two members, including myself.

Roger, or Artful Roger, as everyone knew him, was the founding and other member. We shared AP Bio together and he was pretty smart but his American love was making heroes, villains and worlds for them to battle. He was easy to be around, one of the few on my list with the title 'friends.' I liked Roger and I think he liked me. I guessed he did, at least, or he wouldn't have let me see his mind, pencilled and inked onto cheap school paper when he deserved better. A better club member or better paper, I'm not too sure what I'm getting at. The point is Roger was a good kid and it didn't matter if he didn't like me – not many did – but he liked my art and that's why we were here.

We met every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday afternoon, in Miss Jefferson's art office. It had a table and a glorious supply of paint that I rarely used, unless I needed to touch up on some projects. Today was Tuesday.

It was also the first Tuesday back since we were seniors. I wondered if it bothered Roger that, in our whole time at Perdido High School, we had not achieved anything. I wondered if we were trying to achieve anything.

The art office was on the other side of school so I decided to stop at my locker to throw in books I didn't need to take home. Most of the school had learned to ignore me as I walked through the corridors that smelt like gym socks and sadness. I didn't mind solitude. If it kept away possible friends then they were probably not friends I would want to associate myself with anyway, right?

Of course, there were kids in school that weren't as intimidated by my strong (confident) stride and bored (careless) attitude. A particularly ugly freshman kid glared at me as I tried to walk past. He stood his ground – good for him – but his glower made him look uglier. It didn't take long for me to see he was one of the kids that thought the world was built for them, the kids that thought different was wrong and that their skin, their gender, their religion, their status and their family's money meant they were shoe in for next president despite having a lower than average IQ. _Sorry, kid, but Obama won this one. Maybe next year._

"Look where you're going, bitch!" he spat.

_Or never. That too._

I stared at him for a long time because I had dealt with kids like him and I wasn't going to let anyone deal with him. Maybe his already pale face losing what blood it had was only an indication of my physical power and school status and him wetting his pants now meant nothing when I was out of this parody school and he was still here. Maybe once I walked away and turned the corner, he'd make an offensive joke about the black girl that didn't take his shit and turn the situation around – _what a dyke! I can't believe she thinks she owns this school. It's okay; my dad probably owns her house! Ha ha ha ha ha! _– as if two minutes previously he wasn't trembling and ready to bolt. Fear made people as honest as it made them cowards and it was hard to distinguish between the two.

Even if he would choose his words carefully next time he saw me approaching, that was enough for now. It was a start. Maybe one day he'd learn to change. Maybe he did have a future in running America.

_But for now, Obama wins._

I tried not to smile when the boy started backing away but it failed when he ran, calling after his friends in a desperate wail. It was a good thing I had kept my dignity as a senior and stood my ground much better than he did, mainly because he was blocking my locker.

I tossed my tattered copies of Shakespeare plays and my biology textbook into the hole in the wall that had been mine for the past few years. Aside from my timetable, I kept nothing of importance in it. Roger's was decorated with his own art but it was messy so I was sure it was an accident. Sam Temple hid (yes, _hid_) trophies and medals from numerous water-related sports in his locker, between suspicious report cards and half eaten lunch meals. I wasn't familiar with the insides of anyone else's locker except the junior girl next to me who had a picture of her and her jock boyfriend taped to the inside of the door. Maybe American movies were right.

Roger was already sat drawing when I showed up. There was no club allegiance chant and salute, no ritual for another year. He hooked a pencil behind his ear and gave me a hello that said that the new year had not brought him down, nor had it changed him. As far as physical change and Roger were concerned, he only got taller and his haircuts less chaotic. He needed another one but, unlike most of the male population, Roger had not trimmed himself up for the eager ladies of Perdido beach.

Probably because he was gay but mostly because he was just lazy.

My mind reasoned that he could have trimmed up for the gay male population in our high school but he hadn't so I stuck with lazy. He was good looking, blonde hair, blue eyes and a face that wouldn't look too bad in front of a camera if it wasn't so obsessed with behind it.

"Hey, Dekka," he said, with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Welcome back."

"Bring out the party poppers." I smiled back at him as I tossed my bag to the floor and myself to the chair across him. Kindly, Roger had already set out a fine-liner pen, a 3A pencil and some paper. His was already filled with doodles, which he was beginning to pointlessly paint. "Thanks."

He nodded and asked me about my summer vacation. I didn't reveal much – Roger didn't need to know about how bad the conflicts between me and my parents were getting – but I did tell him about the few times I visited some galleries and the mini conventions I smuggled myself into whilst he visited some aunt in England.

"How was the land of tea?"

"Isn't that a stereotype?" Roger raised his eyebrows. "Aren't you against stereotypes?"

I ignored him. "How was their tea?"

"Considerably better than American tea," he replied dryly. "The queen likes it with two sugars."

"How scandalous."

We laughed and Roger told me seriously about his trip. I asked him about the boys but Roger just shook his head. If anyone caught his eye, it seemed futile. Either Roger was too shy, realistic (I didn't pin him as that one – his life was obsessed with the fictional and who didn't like a summer romance?) or he already had a crush. I didn't press him about it. He told me British girls were the most peculiar girls he'd seen. I told him, "Roger, you're gay." Then we worked in silence for a while but it wasn't unkind. Roger hummed absentmindedly and I concentrated on falling back into the world of creating.

Half an hour passed before either of us spoke.

"Is that in proportion?" Roger nodded towards the hurried sketch I was working on.

"'That?'" I repeated, with raised eyebrows.

He had the decency to blush a little. "You know…" He trailed off pathetically and simply gestured with vagueness at an area on the heroine I was creating. She was featureless but her long, wavy hair was already pencilled out and her body form strong, confident. She was ready for a smirk, for a costume, for a name and a tagline and a post-apocalyptic world to save.

"Roger, you're gay, not a Roman Catholic priest," I said wryly. "They're boobs."

"I didn't want to say the wrong word in case you…" Again, Roger's mouth moved but words ceased to exist. It was funny but I didn't laugh. He was easy to tease.

"In case I what?" But I knew. Our friendship was built on more than just comic books. The LBGT community were our home and feminism was my calling. Roger was possibly the only person who dealt with my rants. Sam just wanted to surf. Anyone else wasn't close enough to care.

"Uh…" Roger coughed with exaggerated awkwardness then grinned sheepishly. "Is feminism a super power?"

I stared him down with hard eyes but there was only so much mock anger I could hold at my club partner. I laughed and said, "In answer to your earlier question, we're comic book artists. Of course they're not in proportion. Our whole point is to downgrade the female sex and exploit every curve to the market because that's all breasts, boobs, tits, the two lumps on the chest of women all around the world are good for."

It was Roger's turn to be wry. "It's in proportion, isn't it?"

"Maybe you should look at boobs more often."

He muttered something that rhymed with 'oh duck a hick.'

I opened my mouth to reply when another voice called out my name. Roger's head snapped up to stare at me, as if I had morphed into a teenage boy and yelled, "Dekka!"

"Don't panic," I told the blonde. "It's Sam."

Roger didn't relax but there was nothing threatening in his gaze. More so, he looked like he felt… _threatened_.

I didn't get the chance to question it when there was the sound of something falling. Miss Jefferson wasn't going to be impressed at all. I sighed and yelled back, "In here, Sam!"

It took a few minutes for Sam to discover the office. Roger tensed further at the sound of muffled voices, revealing Sam wasn't alone. I guessed it was either Quinn Gaither or Edilio Escobar. Astrid, Sam's girlfriend, was probably mixing potions (she was a budding genius) so that ruled her off. However, unlike me, Sam was sociable. He could have anyone from school with him and we would never know but the likelihood narrowed it down to two of his closest friends.

Roger's nervousness didn't make sense until I remembered his denial of any British boys worth romancing. And the fact that Edilio was gay.

"Oh."

Like I said, Roger was smart. His face flushed at my realisation. "Shh!"

"Edilio?" I whispered.

"Shh!" If you could whisper shout then Roger was making a fine example of it.

I acted quick and flung the nearest paint-covered cloth in his face. He caught it too late and used his other hand to inspect his face. "Please tell me I haven't got paint on my face."

"Yes and it's red," I snapped, sliding the paint pallet closer to him. "Go wash up."

Roger swallowed, nodded and took the paints over to the wash-up sink in the corner, meaning his back was to us when Sam stumbled into the office, with a more poised Edilio behind him.

"Dekka!" Sam greeted.

"Sam," I returned, more calmly. "You didn't break anything, did you?"

He hesitated and my eyes narrowed. His hands went up. "Hey, call it modern art."

"Miss Jefferson is going to kill you."

He shrugged. "I can handle that."

"I'm going to help her."

"Okay, I can't handle that."

Sam was the closest thing I had to a best friend. I had known him since we were kids but our crowds were different. Artists and surfers didn't mix until high school then we realised that together we had an unstoppable supply of marijuana. Neither Sam nor I smoked it and that was how we became friends.

I looked past my guilty best friend. "Hi, Edilio."

Edilio- well, everyone loved Edilio. He studied engineering so he wasn't forced to take part in club activities. He looked like the kind of kid that would survive the apocalypse. He was also Honduran. And gay.

Roger dropped some paintbrushes when Edilio replied, in his naturally friendly manner, "Hey, Dekka, Roger."

Roger called out a meek hello with his back still to us. No one thought anything of it but I was sure Edilio's eyes lingered on the blonde a little longer than normal. If Edilio was interested in my club partner then he wasn't giving anything away. It seemed, by nature, Edilio was withdrawn but never unkind. Often, I would consider speaking to him more, just to embrace the similarities between the two of us. But it was senior year and I had probably spoken to Edilio alone about four times, with no substance in conversation.

_Senior year. If the movies are right, everything changes_.

"Coach cancelled," Sam explained, without me asking. He was shaking his head with a look on his face beyond his years. "He drills on about keeping in shape over summer and then, when they're talking try-outs the second week back, he bails. Unbelievable."

"My heart bleeds for you," I replied, appropriately painting the hair of the super-girl I had drawn red. The colour was too harsh so I watered it down until it was like a sunset. Then I chewed the top of the paintbrush because it was too calm. She wasn't calm, whoever she was. She was chaotic, alive. I put down the paintbrush and drew out her hair, as if it was fire. It no longer hung limp atop her shoulders but danced across the page, as if a breeze was spreading the flames. Sam was still talking but I wasn't listening; I finally felt like I was onto something.

"That's good."

Sam broke off in the middle of his rant and I stopped furiously mixing a pallet of colours to acknowledge Edilio's compliment. He had moved closer to the table so he could easily see both my work and Roger's. Usually, I wasn't too fussed about friends flicking through my sketches but something about the girl with hair like fire made me protective, as if she was a secret I needed to keep until she was truly ready for the world. But this was Edilio and I reminded myself that Roger had it worse. He turned just as Edilio stood over his doodles and his face was paler than his usual pale.

"Wow, Roger. These are awesome."

Now, Roger was red again. I caught Sam's eyes and he grinned. I guessed that Roger was probably not experiencing something unrequited.

"So…" Sam sat down beside me. "Do you guys do anything?"

"Except blow off the art club's supplies?" I raised an eyebrow. "Of course not."

"Haven't you ever made an actual comic?" Edilio asked, without malice.

I shook my head. "Roger probably has."

All eyes turned to the blonde and he blinked, flushing even more. "Nothing special and it's hardly published or anything. The comic stuff is just a hobby."

"I've always wondered why you never joined the art club," Edilio murmured. He wasn't ashamed of his curiosity. Roger appeared to be biting back a grin at the sight of the Honduran's ducked head. They were a pair of blushing gay boys. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to feel happy or slightly nauseous.

Then Roger realised he had to answer that statement and he sighed, taking a seat again. "I guess… I guess it's because this school really sucks."

We all laughed quietly. No one said anything. Roger continued. "I mean, they're so obsessed with making everyone be good at something that it's not even about being passionate." He looked at me, as if asking for some sort of confirmation that he was voicing the thoughts of the passionate student body. I nodded and he said, "If you're a bad artist then they don't let you in but who's to say anyone's bad? Everyone's different. Art's different. It isn't about awards and framings and everyone ending up with the same result. Art is about people which is why it's unpredictable and emotional and never the same for anyone. I don't want high school telling me that I can't do what I love so I guess I'm gonna have to wait until I go off to art college or whatever and then I'll be surrounded by people that are actually passionate and…" Roger trailed off unsurely, realising that all eyes were on him. Edilio's smile said something that was almost pride, kind of like the grin on my face and the approval on Sam's.

"Yeah," Edilio agreed. "You're right."

"Doesn't explain why you're in a comic club with the least passionate girl in Perdido Beach though," Sam joked.

I threw him a filthy glare.

None of us spoke and Roger was drawing again. His once shaky hand smoothed out, to create lines that led to people and places, all under the kind eye of Edilio.

Then Sam said softly, "It's bullshit. It is complete bullshit how we're forced to do things we don't love." I almost patted him on the back for his Yoda moment but then he grinned. "Like math."

"No, Sam," Edilio said dryly. "They make you do math because you're an idiot."

I really did need to talk to Edilio more.

"Do you guys make everything up yourself then?" he asked. The question was directed to us both but I let Roger answer. He didn't blush and stammer as much when he was talking about art. At this point, it seemed Roger's passion for art outweighed his passion for Edilio.

"It depends."

"On what?" Sam asked, looking interested.

Roger paused. "Well, how do writers come up with their book ideas. Most of the time, you see what's around you and you take inspiration from it. I guess I'm tired of seeing jocks and textbooks."

"Hey, didn't the chick that wrote _Twilight_ get the idea from a dream?"

"Sam, how do you know that exactly?"

Even cool and collected Sam Temple got flustered under Edilio's interrogation. "I heard someone talking. Don't look at me like that!"

"None of my characters sparkle, if that's what you're wondering." Even Roger was able to dish out some sarcasm once in a while. I felt like a proud mother then remembered that I was corrupting the gentle artist with my negativity.

Sam opened his mouth, saw me glaring at him - he was predictable and Roger was right about me hating stereotypes – and closed it again but not before mumbling, "No gay sparkling crime fighting hero then."

"Sometimes I just recreate heroes that I like drawing. Or like in general," Roger said softly. Edilio watched him paint with thoughtful eyes. "There isn't much to see so there isn't much to draw. It's pretty miserable."

"You could draw people," Edilio suggested. "Create heroes out of everyday people."

"You want to be a hero, Edilio?" Roger asked, sounding surprised.

Finally, it was the other boy's turn to blush. Edilio shook his head, dark shaggy hair falling over his eyes. "No, no, no. I'm strictly sidekick material, if anything. I'm an… average. I don't belong in comic books." He glanced over at Sam. "He'd be a good start, for a hero."

Sam, as much as the world loved him, didn't love himself with arrogance. Or at all but no one knew that, except maybe Astrid. Did anyone love themselves? Especially if they're surrounded by people as good and modest as Edilio, who could have the nerve to love themselves enough to make the lovable hate themselves?

"Are you kidding, man?" Sam looked directly at Roger when he said, "Edilio is completely hero material. Draw him."

Edilio was still shaking his head. "No way. Plus tights are really not my style."

Roger spoke without thinking. "I think you'd look good." Then he realised what he said, ducked his head and furiously outlined.

Edilio looked embarrassed again but I decided it wasn't the bad kind. He insisted his case. "I'm not your hero. Faithful Mexican sidekick is all I could be in that world."

"You're Honduran," Sam said, blinking, but it could have been a question.

"Yeah but this is the media we're talking about. I'll either be Mexican or whitewashed." Edilio sighed and I decided that mine and Roger's social activist group could use his input.

"I would make you who you are, really," Roger said, peeking up through his hair at the boy next to him.

Edilio smiled and, through a pathetically sweet blush, Roger smiled back. The hero debate was left behind.

"Where's Ice Princess then?" I wondered out loud.

Sam repeated to title with confusion. Edilio, with mock innocence, asked, "Ice Princess? Is that a character of yours, Dekka?"

"Yeah, she'll break a man with a cold attitude."

"Careful. People can smell misandry from a mile away," Roger said, without looking up from his paper.

"And those people are probably misogynists." I rolled my eyes. "I said Astrid went around breaking the hearts of men, not their God damn penises."

Roger raised his free hand's palm in surrender. "I was just pointing out our problematic world."

I almost swore then I remembered Edilio and for some reason felt like I would if I attempted to curse in a church.

"You're talking about _Astrid_?" Sam's eyes were wide with disbelief but then he sobered. "Oh, yeah, definite heart breaker."

I smirked. "And the other definition?"

"Go away, Dekka."

"Can you actually break that… body part?" Roger asked timidly.

Edilio remained silent.

"Oh, shit!" It appeared Sam did not feel the Jesus complex radiating out of Edilio. "Astrid!"

"Yes, what about her?"

"Shut up, Dekka."

Our friendship was strong; anyone else who told me to shut up was usually following their own advice soon enough. Sam, instead, was digging out his phone and walking towards the office door. Edilio translated the situation, explaining that Sam was meant to call Astrid about heading to her place after school or whatever. He, with an interesting amount of sarcasm, added that the breaking-penis idea would probably be tested if Astrid didn't get the mark she wanted. Roger then asked if Astrid was actually a genius. I told him that if she was a genius, she wouldn't be dating Sam.

Sam's phone call lasted as long as it took for me to slide the drawing of the fire-haired girl into my sketchbook and hide it in my bag. The compulsion to keep quiet about her existence was strong.

"I'll be heading home with Astrid now." He didn't sound scared so we assumed that our scientific experiment involving a personal body part of Sam's would not be carried out. I heard Edilio whisper to Roger to Google it. Sam asked Edilio if he would be joining the power couple of the century. Unwillingly, Edilio got to his feet.

"Actually," Roger called out nervously, "Edilio, you live near town, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm heading to get some supplies."

The unspoken understanding that they would be each other's company for the next half an hour was between shy smiles. I may have wanted to puke a little if I didn't like them both so much, together and apart.

"Wait, Dekka, are you gonna walk home alone?" _Yeah. I like Roger. He treats me like a human being that couldn't pound the hell out of any creep that dares to approach me in a threatening manner_.

"Don't worry. I can pound the hell of out of any creep that dares to approach me in a threatening manner."

It didn't take any of them much convincing.

We closed up the comic club early, with Sam's million dollar question of whether we actually read comics. I lied and said no and let Roger talk about his favourites in the Justice League. When I paused, it took them all a few steps to realise I wasn't with them. They turned and I said, "Detour to my locker." No one questioned it and we said our goodbyes.

It made me a little sad that I was so good at lying to the people that even considered me a friend. It made me mad that I didn't have a problem with it.

I drifted through the school that was still alive with after school activities. With each full classroom I passed, I wondered how many kids really wanted to be there. I wondered if anyone was passionate anymore.

_There's always a few. Like Roger._

I took a right and exited the school building through a fire exit door that was out of use and usually off limits. No one was around to say anything. The door made almost no noise when it swung shut, thankfully. I could hear far off shouting but nothing I could make out. It didn't matter anyway. I didn't need to hear; I needed to see.

I ducked behind the bleachers and crawled forward so I could observe between the gaps. The shadows the bleachers caused hid me well enough. Any passing runner would be too focused on their lane, practice and race. I got out my sketchbook and whatever pencil my hand could grasp on in the dark.

The coach for the track team called out for group B to assemble. Five girls – tall, athletic, determined – all readied themselves. I wondered who was just wanted to win for the sake of winning. I wondered which one ran because she loved to run.

Coach counted down and then they were off.

The one my eyes followed was on the outward lane, conveniently for me. I had known her since we were both freshman students but that didn't mean I _knew_ her. Nor did it mean I knew that the power in her stride and the purpose etched onto her pretty face made her like Roger, like the kids who did things for the sake of passion and enjoyment. All I could do was guess she was one of them, from the delighted smile that she loved what she did.

When she raced past my hiding spot, her long hair flew out behind her like a single red flame meeting an insistent breeze.

I had found my heroine.

_Brianna Anderson_.


End file.
